


the common tongue of your loving me

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Edging, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, not so much the nebulous well adjusted future as it is a vague semi-adjusted future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Michael has a long, stressful day, and when he's pulled too tight he snaps. But luckily, Alex knows just how to handle him.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 20
Kudos: 162





	the common tongue of your loving me

**Author's Note:**

> when in doubt, hozier lyric title. it is so lucky for me that hozier be horny. (this one comes from moment's silence).

First thing in the morning, Michael’s truck makes a godawful noise when it turns over. It’s the kind of noise that builds stones up on top of his chest, how someone might feel if their childhood pet was dying, if their roof was about to cave in. This truck was his home, once. 

Of course, he’s him. He can fix just about anything. But he gets to Sanders’s and there’s a trickle of work too constant for him to even pop the hood. He should be happy--he is--he needs the money as much as ever, but the low-level anxiety grates on his nerves throughout the day. Until it ends and he’s faced with a choice--stay at the yard after hours to take a look at his truck and miss dinner with Alex, which is sometimes the only part of the day they really get together, since Alex has to get up so early to get to the base, or head home and take a chance that the next day won’t be more of the same. A tension headache pounds at the back of his skull, frustration teetering dangerous when he goes to call Alex and get his input and finds it dead. What if he’s been calling? What if something _happened_? What if he’s--mad that Michael has been out of touch, what if Michael goes home and Alex is cold over dinner and turns away from him in bed and he has to talk, say words that are going to turn into a fight, what if Alex is still mad in the morning? 

He can hear his heart pounding, stomach queasy as he slides behind the wheel. She turns over easy this time, but that makes nothing better, and he takes the roads slow on his way home despite the itch in his bones to get back to Alex, to crawl in the bed, under it, somewhere safe and small where maybe he can’t get hurt. The oldest instinct he has, and he hates how young and vulnerable he feels when it activates, how it’s bound to make him lash out. So much so he almost turns around to leave Alex wanting.

Michael will just make everything worse. It’s what he does best. 

But by the time his mind is almost made up, he’s sitting in the driveway, and it’s just another choice he’s facing down. Go inside, where he’s gonna be awful, gonna make him hate himself, gonna ruin Alex’s night and upset them both? Turn around, even though Alex has probably heard him, maybe seen him, definitely got him on security camera, and hurt Alex like that? Leave the car running while he dithers, waiting for it to crap out, leaving him unable to get to work the next day? 

His hands shake on the ignition, and he turns the key. Shoulders hunched, hat on his head, he hurries up the stairs before he can change his mind, struggles to unlock the front door, and he hates that too, how he always gets the wrong key on the first try, imagines Alex can hear the scrape of it in the lock, imagines it worries him, imagines him thinking Michael doesn’t know this is his home, that he doesn’t value it like all the things he’s ever had taken away.

He closes the door behind him and shuffles out of his boots, hoping for just a moment to catch his breath before having to talk to Alex, as awful as that feels. Buffy trots out from the den to investigate him, her little nails clicking on the tile floor, and petting her soft ears calms him down a little bit, enough that when he looks up and sees Alex leaning in the doorway, he smiles.

“Hey,” Michael says, and when Alex smiles back at him, a little more of the tension leaves his tight shoulders.

“Hey,” Alex says. “I just got home myself. Do you wanna unload the dishes or take Buffy out before dinner?”

And just like that, all the anxiety rushes back. Which does Alex _want_ him to pick? Buffy is Alex’s dog, really, he should get to be the one who spends time with her. But Alex is no fan of actually picking up the dog shit, so maybe he wants Michael to do it? But Alex also hates doing the dishes--does he hate it as much as Michael does, because Michael fucking does hate it, hates how he forgets where things go and has to annoy Alex by asking every five minutes, how it stresses him out when Alex can’t find something because he put it back wrong, how inadequate and stupid it makes him feel, how it reminds him he’s never had a proper kitchen or anyone to share with--

“Whichever works for me,” Alex says with a shrug, and, fuck, is he getting impatient? 

“I guess I’ll take Buffy,” Michael blurts, bracing himself for the reaction.

And he gets nothing. Alex just nods and brushes past him to the kitchen. He doesn’t seem mad, but the whole time Michael watches Buffy poke her way around the yard his foot is bouncing, his mind racing over how unhappy Alex might be when they go back inside. 

But Alex just smiles that same little smile at him, and he’s soft and at home, undressed after work, hair sticking up in the back, and Michael loves him so much it hurts, aches deep in his chest all dull and hard to breathe.

“Did you get the mail when you got back, by any chance? I forgot.”

_Fuck._ Another tiny thing, another straw on the camel’s back, and Michael’s breath escapes him like he caught a fist to the stomach. Anger spikes and recedes just as quickly. If he’d been _told,_ he would have gotten it. Did Alex--no, it doesn’t matter, Michael should have checked, should have anticipated this need, should have been better, more conscientious, and fuck he was just outside _again,_ if he was any good he would have done it, and--

“No, I didn’t think about it,” he manages without giving too much away. He folds his arms in front of himself. Does Alex mean that he wants him to go back out and get it? Because he can, it’s no big deal, but what if he tries and Alex thinks he’s leaving, or being passive aggressive, or…

“Hm. Well, it’s no big deal. Probably just ads anyway.”

And what does _that_ mean? Is it really no big deal, or is Alex just taking Michael’s carelessness on the chin, like he so often has to? Michael already knows he’s a shitty roommate, he has no idea, he doesn’t get the cues most of the time, Max and Isobel have gotten on him often enough the few times he’s stayed with one of them, and right now he feels like he’s drowning in it.

Alex puts the last of the glasses away and turns to the fridge. Michael stays hovering in the arched entry to the kitchen, waiting for--something? An argument to explode, a shoe to drop, or, please god, Alex to just tell him what to do, even if it’s just a gentle reminder to go get washed up--which, god damn it, he still hasn’t done, he’s the worst, smeared with grease and filthy-feeling against the clean tile of the kitchen, but he can’t move--is it too late already, what will Alex think if he walks away, what is Alex thinking right now--

“My turn to cook,” Alex says. “I don’t really have any preference, though. What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Michael snaps. “Do you need me to tell you _everything?_ Just make a damn decision!”

Alex recoils, just the slightest jerk backward of his head, and his eyebrows fly up in shock, and Michael’s mind is flat, white noise between his ears, and he staggers backwards, his own hands going up in surrender.

Through numb lips, he stumbles to say, “Fuck, I’m, _fuck,_ I’m sorry, I,”

God, he wants to punch himself in the face. He knew it, he knew he’d ruin everything tonight. This was always coming. He can’t help himself—he doesn’t deserve to be here, filthy in Alex’s nice clean kitchen, in his house, in his life, and now he’s reminded Alex of why, and—

He steps backward again, hands coming halfway up to clutch his head, then dropping again because his mind can’t even coordinate that much, screaming as it is, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say to make it better, anything at all.

“Michael,” Alex says.

“I’m sorry. _Fuck._ ”

“Michael, hey.” Alex’s voice goes softer. He steps forward once, then more when Michael stops backing away. When he’s close enough to touch, he lifts his hand and slides it around the back of Michael’s neck, rubbing tight muscle in slow, deep circles, and Michael shudders in relief.

“What are you doing?”

Alex raises his eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. “I’m making a damn decision. Follow me.”

Michael’s mouth falls open, but he can’t reply, and Alex doesn’t wait for him to. Helplessly, Michael trails after Alex down the hall and to the bathroom.

“Get in and clean yourself up,” Alex says

Michael hesitates. He _does_ need to shower, but the thought of being alone with his own thoughts makes him want to scream. Or break something. But Alex just starts the water and then sits down on the toilet lid, showing no sign of leaving, and Michael’s knees go weak with gratitude.

Still, Michael strips off and soaps himself up quickly and clinically, rushing just in case, until he hears Alex’s voice over the water.

“Take your time, Michael. Breathe. I’m right here.”

And with a deep, shaky breath, Michael nods, head bent, water running through his curls and into his face.

After a minute or two more of hot, nearly-scalding water beating down onto his back, Michael takes in a lungful of steam and exhales it slowly. The blind panic seeps out of him and swirls away down the drain, and he turns his head, blinks his eyes clear, and Alex is just a dark, blurry shape behind the shower curtain, but Michael still looks at him when he speaks.

“Truck didn’t want to start this morning, and I haven’t gotten a chance to check her out yet. It stressed me out all day, so by the time I got h-home,” he stumbles over the word, flinches like he’s waiting for it to be struck down, but Alex doesn’t say a word.

Alex’s silhouette stands up, and Michael looks away.

He continues, “But I’m not making excuses. I didn’t mean to—I _shouldn’t_ have taken it out on you. I know that. If you—”

The shower curtain jerks back, and Michael’s head whips up with it, meeting Alex’s dark eyes, his enigmatic little smile.

“Apology accepted, Michael,” he says, and Michael nods and swallows, mouth suddenly dry at the heat in Alex’s gaze.

“You’re gonna get water all over the floor,” Michael says weakly, but Alex just smiles wider and says, all confidence:

“You’ll clean it up later. Now give me your hands.”

“What?”

“I’m checking your work.”

For a second, Michael wants to strike back, snap that he’s not a little kid, that he may be a fuckup but he can manage to fucking clean his own ass, but the urge is snuffed out quick under the blanket of Alex’s eyes on him.

He holds out his hands and Alex takes them, checks them backs first, then palms, checking that all the day’s grime has been scrubbed out from each line, knuckle, and nail. Then Alex has him lean over, grabs his chin to pull his head this way and that, rakes his fingers through Michael’s hair to make sure it’s properly washed out, and Michael _sinks_ into being handled like this, taken in Alex’s hands and directed where he needs to be. Alex checks every part of him, down even to his feet, until finally he orders him to turn around. A flush fills Michael’s face as Alex grabs his ass and parts it to look directly at his hole.

“Good,” Alex praises.

It’s absurd how weak that one syllable makes him. Alex rubs the pad of his thumb roughly across his hole, and Michael wants to fall to his knees for him so fast he bruises.

“Okay, Michael,” Alex says, “now I want you to touch yourself. Get yourself hard for me.”

Still flushed and docile from being inspected, Michael obeys without hesitation. He trails a hand down his chest, down his stomach, and takes his dick in hand.

He strokes himself slowly until he starts to harden and he speeds up a little, building the pleasure up at a constant rate, letting out a quiet, humming moan at the friction of his callouses. His eyes slip shut even though he tries to keep them open, to watch Alex watching him, and he tips his head back to rest against the cool shower wall as he spreads his legs wide, flexes his hips into each stroke.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

Michael blinks his eyes open at the sound of Alex’s voice, and a bolt of lust leaps through his chest when his eyes focus on that face, stern but gentle, the tilt of his head so familiar, the way he stands, hands in the pockets of his sweats. In control, in command, even in a too-small t-shirt, dressed down and casual.

“I know what you need,” Alex says, “And you’re going to let me give it to you.”

Michael huffs out a breath. It sounds too good to be true—or at least too good to be for _him—_ it always, always does. But even so it’s a _simple_ contradiction; it requires nothing from Michael except that he follow Alex’s orders anyway and that he trusts Alex to know what’s best.

Once Michael’s stroked himself to full hardness, Alex shuts off the water. He has Michael out of the shower and bundled up in a towel before he can even start to shiver in the cool air. Michael dries himself off under Alex’s watchful eye—and Alex stops him before he wraps the towel around his waist, plucks it from him and drops it over the puddle on the floor, and then he grabs his hips, rubbing tight little circles, digging his fingertips into his ass.

“You need me to take you out of your head for a while, hm?” Alex says.

Michael is so mesmerized by those half-lidded eyes it takes him seconds to even answer with a bob of his head.

Alex wraps his hand around Michael’s dick, and Michael grunts at the heat of his hand, the callouses, so different from his own. Alex strokes him, and his toes curl helplessly on the cold tile floor, his hands held politely at his sides, already slipping into that space where all that matters is being ordered what to do.

“Let’s go, Michael.”

His hand stays firm on the back of Michael’s neck as Alex marches him to the bedroom, naked while Alex is fully clothed and put together, hair still dripping down his back.

They get to the bedroom, and Michael stands in the middle of the room while Alex grabs a few things—a clean towel, lube from the nightstand, a couple bottles of water—and then sits on the edge of the bed and looks Michael up and down.

A wave of self-consciousness crashes over Michael, and he folds his arms in front of him. His dick has softened in the meantime, and he doesn’t know if Alex will be mad, or if he was supposed to do something, he wasn’t _told._

“I—” he starts, but Alex swiftly cuts him off.

“Shh. Lay down in the middle of the bed, on your back.”

As soon as he does, Alex slides up to the top of the bed, pulling Michael’s head into his lap; Michael’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling of his fingers stroking the hair back from his face, running gently over his features until they settle at his temples, massaging slow circles there.

“That’s it,” Alex croons. “Keep them shut. You don’t have to decide, Michael. You won’t even have to think.”

“Alex,” Michael whispers, and Alex bends to kiss him lightly to quiet him again.

He starts at Michael’s jaw, thumbs fitted into the hinges, where it’s sore from being clenched all day, and Michael lets out a shuddery breath at that firm touch, and again when those hands slide down to stroke his neck instead. He runs a finger across the soft, vulnerable arch of his throat, and Michael swallows against the not-pressure of his own buzzing skin the second Alex’s touch is gone.

Alex touches him all over, hands wandering down to his chest, and Michael shivers at the feeling of calluses on his skin, every inch of himself feeling oversensitized. He wants to squirm in Alex’s hold, but his heart catches in his throat at the thought of it, of disappointing Alex like that when all he needs to do is hold still.

“Ah-ah,” Alex tuts, and he grabs Michael’s nipple and twists cruelly, making Michael arch his chest off the bed with a yelp. “I know that face. I will _tell_ you what I want from you and when I want it. No trying to see the future. No reading my mind. No punishing yourself for not being able to.”

He lets go and Michael falls back to the bed and _lets_ himself squirm like he wants to, shifting to feel the sensation of Alex’s sheets, the soft-rough scrape of his sweatpants on Michael’s bare skin. His cock is half-hard and outlined beautifully by the fabric, and Michael touches his tongue to his bottom lip and reaches out to touch him, palm him through his clothes.

But with a light laugh, Alex grabs his hand and pins it to the bed. “Nice try, but no. Just relax and let me do this for you, Michael.”

“What’re you gonna do, Private?”

“Take all that shit in your head you torture yourself with and replace it with something else. Now hush and let me work.”

Michael mimes zipping his lips and Alex rolls his eyes fondly, grabbing his wrist to pin it to the bed again. His hands resume their light stroking, starting once more at Michael’s head and working down to his stomach and back up, until Michael’s breathing is deep and slow, his skin tingling, so relaxed he might just sink through the bed, and that’s when Alex moves from under him to work on his lower half.

He repeats the gentle motions on Michael’s hips and legs, giving his cock a stroke every time he reaches the apex of his thighs, keeping him hard but giving him nothing to push back against. He keeps this up, alternating massaging with ticklish petting until Michael is squirming for real, turned on but denied, trying to press up into Alex’s hands even though Alex pulls away every time he does.

Finally he lets out a frustrated moan, and Alex grins.

“Okay, Michael.”

In a swift motion, Alex moves up, bringing Michael’s legs with him until his knees touch his chest, then letting go so his legs fall open around Alex’s hips. With a firm tug, Alex pulls him fully into his lap, and he bends to take the head of Michael’s cock into his mouth, sucking him in and running his tongue over that sensitive skin.

“ _Fffu—”_ Michael hisses, arching up just to be held down again, pinned by Alex’s arm an iron bar across his lower belly. Everything, everything is so sensitive from being touched all over, and as Alex sucks him in deeper Michael has to bite back another groan.

Then Alex pulls off of him with a _pop_ of his lips and starts in with his hand, stroking him quick and efficient slicked by his own saliva—he alternates between the two until Michael is panting and rolling his hips in his lap, and then just, _just_ when Michael feels his balls begin to tighten, just as he thinks he might cum right into Alex’s lovely, long-fingered hand, or in his hot, wet mouth, Alex pulls away entirely, drops Michael’s ass back onto the bed.

For the first time since Michael climbed onto the bed, they aren’t touching at _all,_ and Michael whines unhappily at it, at the cold air that replaces Alex’s warmth.

“Just making sure you aren’t getting too excited. I’m right here.”

And then that touch is back, tugging at him lightly, and disappearing again. Alex repeats it a few more times, and when Michael starts to try and roll into it, he holds his hand in a loose fist and lets him fuck it, but it’s _so_ not enough, the barest friction doing nothing but frustrating him, that Michael drops his hips back to the bed and turns his head away, pouting.

With a laugh, Alex grabs his chin and forces his face forward again, rewarding his petulance by touching him for real, firm and hot and fast, jerking him until he feels the orgasm start to build again, no matter how he tries to stop it, knowing that Alex is just going to torture him again.

This time, when Alex’s hand pulls off his cock, he can’t hold back.

“ _Nnnah--!_ No! Fuck!”

He teeters on the edge for a long, breathless moment, and then his orgasm pulls back again, and Michael kicks the mattress in frustration, tears pricking at his eyes.

The sound makes Alex laugh, and he draws his hand down and back up the tender inside of Michael’s thigh, just firm enough not to tickle, and a harsh breath drives past Michael’s lips, one foot twisting in the sheets—he needs some outlet, _something,_ for all the blood and energy racing underneath his skin. He’s—he _aches,_ between his legs, tight in his chest, words all blocked up in his throat, pleas and apologies and other humiliating things to babble.

“I know,” Alex soothes. “You can hold it until I’m ready, though. I know you can. You’re doing so well. Just keep still for me now, alright.”

He brings his fingers back to Michael’s thighs but nail-first this time, raking fine, stinging lines, and Michael’s cock jumps, his hips jump up with it, and it isn’t, isn’t easy not to roll with it, fuck into the air until even the frictionless flexing of his lower body is enough to bring him off, keyed up as he is. But he wants to be good. To follow orders. He doesn’t have to choose because Alex already did. So he keeps it to just the one, uncontrolled buck of his muscles, and sighs when Alex pushes him down laughing, roughly palming his hips.

Once he’s settled Alex does it again, back up the insides of his thighs and then out and around, just under the curve of his ass, leaving those little welts, the barest burn in the cool air of the bedroom.

Michael whines. He’s so hard, leaking a sticky little well of precum onto his belly, he gets no relief when Alex stops touching his cock because every part of him is too sensitive under Alex’s hands. His mind is blessedly quiet, going soft around the edges, the only thing in focus the need to be good, to hold off the orgasm building and building, and the sound of Alex’s voice, the feel of being under his hands, under his control, the nearness of him soaking through every one of Michael’s senses, so good, so right. He lets out a little moan at the sudden hot span of Alex’s palm against his stomach, a light touch but enough to sink all the way into his bones.

Alex’s fingers stroke in place, just the barest friction against Michael’s skin. It tickles a little, a counterpoint to the all-encompassing ache between his legs, the weight of his hand a grounding force, and Michael shifts slightly underneath it so he can feel it even more.

“I think you like this,” Alex says, “feeling so good it hurts. I think you’d let me keep you like this all night, if I wanted. Oh, you’d complain...but not that much.” And his hand drifts down, to the crease of Michael’s hip, massages the tense muscle there, then smoothes over to do the next one. Michael whimpers and flexes under the touch as he loosens up. It makes his cock twitch again.

Alex notices, if the grin that lights up his face is anything to go by, and Michael’s feet scrabble on the bedsheets when Alex runs his finger up the side of his cock, collecting the beaded wetness there. Even that tiny bit of attention paid where Michael needs it the most is enough to have him teetering perilously on the edge again, for all that the pleasure had started to fade into a more distant, full-body hum.

Alex’s grin stays wide and satisfied as he admires the slick on his finger reflecting the light, then reaches over and pops the finger into Michael’s mouth, letting him taste himself. Michael laves his tongue over the pad of that finger, licking his way past his own bitter-salt slick and to the taste of Alex’s skin. But when he tries to suck that finger deeper into his mouth, Alex pulls it away with a laugh, and wipes it on Michael’s cheek.

“Alex,” Michael moans, turning his head to chase after his hand, but Alex just laughs and sits up.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got other plans for my fingers that you’re going to like.”

And with a wicked grin, Alex pops the cap on the bottle of lube.

He runs a slick finger down the crease of Michael’s ass, light and tickling until he reaches his hole and presses in, just barely breaching him, tugging to pull at the rim, and then the pressure is gone. Michael tries to arch up into it, but Alex just clicks his tongue and doesn’t bring that hand back until Michael’s hips are flat with the sheets again, and then the process starts all over again.

“Stay still and I’ll give you what you need,” Alex says, keeping up that _torturous_ feeling, massaging, stroking him with the pads of two fingers now, making him tingle and twitch and go half out of his mind from wanting _more,_ needing more, Alex inside of him, filling him up.

It’s so fucking _hard_ not to move, not to screw his hips down onto Alex’s fingers every time the tip of his slick finger slips inside. Michael squeezes his eyes shut, tenses every muscle in his thighs, locks up his spine, every muscle he knows how to move trembling on edge to keep him from moving, and still it takes _minutes_ for Alex to stop teasing him.

“That’s it,” Alex says.

Michael’s only reply is a thin whine, and Alex runs his unoccupied hand soothingly up his flank and back down.

He says, “You can touch yourself again. But you know not to come until I say so, don’t you?”

Already panting, Michael nods, slides his hand down his chest to take himself in hand, only lightly this time—he’s so sensitive that anything more would _hurt_ as much as it felt good. He strokes himself once, shuddering when he passes his thumb over the head, squeezes himself at the base on the downstroke for a moment of reprieve before starting again, and—

Alex adds more lube and then pushes inside with two fingers, making Michael groan at the stretch, toss his head on the pillow, curls tumbling into his face. The pulse of Alex’s fingers in and out, fast and rough, knuckles grinding past his prostate on every pass, it’s too much, too much, heat pulsing in time in Michael’s stomach, coiled tension in every muscle. One hand has to stop its stroking, still around the base, and the other spasms in the bedsheets, trying to hold on to something, anything, as he tries, _tries_ to hold back.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” Alex says.

“N—n _nh! Alex!”_

He leans over and licks a stripe up Michael’s cock, and Michael can’t do anything but cry out.

“Alex, _please,_ oh fuck, _uhnnnn, fuck,_ please!”

“Either you touch your cock or I do; either way, you’re not coming until I say you can.”

Michael hesitates with a quiet, nervous noise, and Alex softens immediately.

“You can do it, Michael. You’re doing so well for me; just a little bit more. You can do it.”

His cock is so slick from his own pre that his hand glides up and down easy, light, and he can’t manage much more than a slow, uneven, jerky pace, but Alex lets it go. He presses a third finger into him and keeps up his merciless rhythm, stretching his rim, _fucking_ him hard with his fingers, a casual, loving cruelty in the way he carelessly keeps pressure on his prostate, keeps those rolling shivers of absolute pleasure sparking up and down Michael’s spine.

And Michael, he just, he can’t, he _can’t._ Little moans and cries spill constantly from his throat, everything narrowed down to nothing but surviving the onslaught of sensation, of being _good_ and not coming, not until, and even though he has to, he _can’t,_ he—

Alex slips a fourth finger into him like it’s nothing, he’s so loose and fucked out for him, and the thought sends a pulse of pleasure right to the core of him and he _almost_ loses it, barely holds off with a frustrated _ggnnah!_ Biting his lip and tossing his head.

God, he _needs._ It’s the only thing in his mind, in his body, just one high, clear note of white-hot _need._

“Alex, please, please, God, fuck, _please,_ I’m, I can’t!”

Alex hums, and Michael opens his watering eyes just enough to see him grin, crooked and mean.

“No.”

And he pulls all four of his fingers away.

Michael _breaks._ He curls his knees up to his chest, drops his hand away, and just fucking _sobs,_ horribly empty but still wracked with aching pleasure, he could come right now with just a little friction but it would be bad, _awful,_ he curls up to protect himself from it; he’d live the rest of his life at knifepoint if Alex wanted him to. The first sob is like a dam breaking, and then Michael can’t stop crying, chest hitching with the force of it.

Alex crawls over top of him, hands gentle on his skin, cupping his cheeks, and Alex kisses him lightly, his forehead and eyelids and lips, swallowing every ugly, hiccupping noise.

“Okay, Michael, shh, it’s okay, there you are, I’ve got you,” Alex croons, and there, with Alex crouching over him, curled up over his chest and blocking out the light, Michael feels so held, protected, safe.

Alex slides his fingers back into Michael’s hole, aiming right for his prostate. Michael’s next sob is one of relief as he works his hips back onto his fingers, fucking himself, chasing every lick of fire.

“Fuck, look at you,” Alex groans. His other hand goes to Michael’s twitching, red-hot cock, and Michael makes a strangled noise of warning, but Alex just laughs and says, “It’s okay, Michael. You can come. Whenever you’re ready, come for me.”

And fuck, _fuck,_ it doesn’t take long. It takes seconds, just two quick pumps, the ridges of his fingers twisting inside him, and Michael comes with a wail, painting his stomach white, comes so hard his eyes roll back and his thighs shake uncontrollably until he goes limp entirely in Alex’s arms.

Before Michael can even regain his senses, still quivering through his orgasm, tears not even cooling on his cheeks, Alex climbs up him to straddle his chest. He tugs his sweats down just enough to reveal his thick, hard cock and Michael drops his mouth open for it, but Alex doesn’t feed it to him, just fucks his own hand until he comes hot all over Michael’s face.

“ _Fuck,_ Michael,” Alex says. He looks so fucking gorgeous over top of Michael like this, dark and gilded by the lamplight, fierce and soft all at once, _owning_ Michael entirely, possessing him.

Michael licks his lips to get a taste, but before it’s gone Alex swoops in to kiss him, licking and biting into his mouth, devouring him. When they pull apart, they don’t go far. Alex gropes for wipes to clean them up—his touch is so, so gentle, so soft Michael’s lip quivers like he might start crying again, but Alex holds his jaw steady and grounding and keeps their foreheads pressed together.

They stay like that for a long while, all wrapped up in each other, trading soft kisses. Michael wraps his arms around Alex and clings there, hands shoved up his t-shirt so he can stroke the soft planes of his skin, feel the ripple of muscle there every time he moves in closer so they can kiss again.

All the stress of the day, the anxiety tangled up and mangled inside him, it all feels straightened out and orderly now, carefully contained by Alex’s hands and his voice and his iron fucking will. And with all those big and small things temporarily silenced, Michael tucks his face into Alex’s shoulder and snorts out a little laugh.

Alex cradles him with a hand between his shoulder blades, and when he presses a kiss to Michael’s temple, Michael can feel his grin. “What’s so funny?”

Michael nudges up closer, whispers it like it’s a secret:

“I still don’t know what I want for dinner.”

Alex laughs freely along with him. “When you can walk again, we’ll go to the kitchen and find something we’ve got around, okay?”

Michael just nods and burrows into his chest, resting his head right over his heartbeat, and letting his whole body relax into his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> ;)


End file.
